


Five Times Steve and Bucky Danced in the 20th Century + One Time They Danced in the 21st

by gaylabinsky



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: 5 Things, 5+1 Things, Canon Compliant, Dancing, Fluff, M/M, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Post-Serum Steve Rogers, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Swing Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2015-08-13
Packaged: 2018-04-11 10:42:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4432442
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaylabinsky/pseuds/gaylabinsky
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's dancing with Bucky Barnes and it's all the things Steve loves.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Five Times Steve and Bucky Danced in the 20th Century + One Time They Danced in the 21st

**Author's Note:**

> after years of writing fic, i'm finally publishing some. it's a five times fic because i am absolute _trash_ , and it's featuring a load of music because i am _even trashier_.
> 
> for the first part, the songs they're dancing to are judy garland's [stompin' at the savoy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fiMykEc5qzI) and tommy dorsey's [well, git it!](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xjdFkzRiyls) as well as benny goodman's [sing sing sing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TIoTpeM6o2A) and miscellaneous other upbeat swing hits from the late 30s. second bit has a lot of songs, but i think for a very certain bit, i think of glenn miller's [i got rhythm](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=m-2jzX8AzLA). third part is, obviously, billie holliday's [can't take that away from me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ehMx12dSF6w), which is one of my favourites. fourth part has one of my all-time favourites, vera lynn's [we'll meet again](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cHcunREYzNY). fifth part would be glenn miller and his orchestra _again_ with [bugle call rag](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rY_wrB0S_Ck) and other wartime favourites. and for our time-jump to the 21st century, we have queen's [good ol' fashioned lover boy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JJLrw3sCviw), which, i think, is fitting.

The first time Steve sees Bucky dancing since he came back, since he started acting like _Bucky_ again, Steve feels his throat close up. Buck’s dancing isn’t what it used to be, when he was all spins and quick feet and easy smiles, but he’s listening to one of Sam’s playlists while he makes himself lunch, and he sways to the melody, humming a bit. He still spins when the beat picks up, and when the tempo changes he shuffles his feet to stay with the rhythm, but his movements are smaller, and they don’t have the grandeur they used to.

He looks happy, though, Steve thinks. He looks at home. Not the same way he looked dancing in their Brooklyn apartment, but Steve still sees him dancing and thinks of the sweltering heat of 1937 summertime. It's an extra twenty degrees and he’s not in Stark Tower, he’s in their cramped Red Hook apartment all over again.

 

1.

Bucky looks stupid happy despite the heat, and Steve assumes his date with Patty O'Connell went well last night. He doesn't seem to mind the sweat on his forehead as he heats up some grits on their single-burner stovetop. Judy Garland fills the room, singing of swing and savoy, trumpet low and happy. Lifting the skillet off the flame, Bucky two-steps his way over to their small wooden table with their late-morning grits.

“Smells real good, Buck,” Steve grins, getting up from where he had been sitting on the windowsill to make his way over to his friend.

“And you can bet yourself it’ll taste even better,” Bucky replies, flashing a toothy smile. What he doesn’t say is _it_ _’_ _s a damn shame that there ain_ _’_ _t enough for a full serving between the two of us, Stevie_. But Bucky is all smiles and dancing.

“Got your hand up Patty’s skirt, then?”

“Now, Stevie, I’m not lookin’ like the kinda fella to kiss and tell, do I?” Bucky winks anyway, though, and Steve has to take a bite of his grits to hide his blush. They're  hot, though, too hot, burning his mouth past numb and he spits it back out onto his plate, reaching for his warm glass of water.

“Gotta let it cool, punk. Thermodynamics and all that jazz.”

“Smartass.”

“You know it too.” Bucky gets up, pushing his chair back from the table and making his way over to Steve, offering a hand. “Let’s dance.”

“What?”

“Let’s dance, I said. Jig. Be-bop. Swing. While we wait for the grits to cool long enough to eat.” Bucky waggles his eyebrows at him. “Come on, it’s so hot it’ll take a few tunes.”

“Shoulda just heated ‘em on the windowsill, then,” but Steve takes his hand and follows him closer to the radio. The song has changed, no longer Judy’s voice guiding their feet, but Sidney Bechet’s deep sax, all brass and swing. Swing, swing, swing.

The heat doesn’t stop them from dancing faster than the trumpet sings, and they trip over themselves to keep up with each other, laughing every time they stumble. The trumpet fades from the radio with its familiar crackles and pop, but the room is far from empty of music. They dance to Glenn Miller and Duke Ellington, the Andrews Sisters and Fred Astaire. They find their shuffle to Billie Holiday and can’t keep up with Benny Goodman’s tempo.

They dance until after their grits start to go cold and when Steve starts to lose his breath, Bucky changes their pace, dancing slower and bringing Steve close, ignoring the tempo of the brass and the winds.

“You’re a damn good jitterbug, you know that, Rogers?” Bucky is beaming down at him.

“No girls are gonna dance with me, though.” Steve returns a half-hearted smile.

“Any dame’s crazy not to want you.” Steve shakes his head. “Stevie, they’d be lucky to dance with a fella like you. Guess they just can’t see the Steven G Rogers I do.”

Steve feels his heart begin to hammer and has to duck his head to hide the red of his cheeks.

 

2.

It's 1939 and the whole world is in New York City. Flushing is bursting at the seams with boasts of wonder to put the big seven to shame. Steve hadn't wasted any time in pointing out that "the world's way bigger than 33 countries, Buck, thought you were good at geography." This had earned him a playful whack on the back of the head with yesterday's newspaper. Still, Steve's eyes had been just as wide as his friend's when he caught sight of Corona Park.

Countless people streamed in and out, weaving their ways around each other, chattering with awe at the exhibitions. This was the future, and anything was possible, like robots and flying cars, _like Asimov_. Bucky looked like a child, completely enraptured by the possibilities that waited inside the park.

"Y'know, punk," Bucky leans in, slinging his arm around Steve's shoulder. His voice quiets slightly. "Mr Howard Stark _himself_ is s'pos'dta be here."

"There's also s'posed to be a robot that _smokes_ , Buck," Steve responds, skeptical but still grinning wide at the sight of his best friend. "Don't hold your breath." Bucky just smiles wider.

"Don't have to." He quirks an eyebrow. "I'll just have a robot breathe for me."

"You're so weird," Steve replies, rolling his eyes.

Later that night, though, when they should be exhausted, their bones are practically jittering with excitement because Howard Stark _was_ there and so was the smoking robot. When Steve hadn't been looking, Bucky had nicked them a bit of cotton candy, telling him he'd had a little money saved, and what better way to spend it than at the World's Fair? Steve had started counting off his fingers _food, medicine, heat_ , but his mouth had been shoved full of cotton candy before the last word was out of his mouth.

The sun is beginning to dip low in the sky, setting the horizon ablaze with pinks and oranges, a slight breeze from the beginnings of the night tipping through the air and disturbing the still humidity of the early summer. Bucky's got a girl on his arm, laughing at his jokes and beaming with every mention he makes of the ridiculous inventions he'd just fancy creating one day.

The two pairs had bumped into each other in the Food Zone, coming from different ends of the park. After the fair had closed and people had begun streaming out, the four figured on going dancing, and, to Steve's surprise, the girl on his arm didn't seem to mind.

"You're on the arm of the next Howard Stark," Bucky declares. Then he gestures back at Steve, walking a few paces behind him with the friend of Bucky's date. "Back there you got the next Picasso. Two of us, we're gon' have the world 'round our fingers!" He's just a bit tipsy and his cheeks are tinged pink from the buzz of alcohol, and his grin is enormous, untainted by concern.

Steve's date doesn't seem so keen on him, but she walks close enough and tries a bit of conversation, asking him about his art and what he thought of the fair. He could tell she didn't fancy him, probably had a fella she had her eyes on already, but she was kind, introducing herself as Molly and laughing at a few of his jokes.

Bucky's date, however, wants him all to herself and hardly acknowledges Steve's presence at all. Steve barely catches her name, thinks it might be Shirley but can't think of a way to ask her without sounding rude. He didn't think she did it on purpose. Bucky is a whirlwind, full of brightness and ideas that could pull anyone into his small world. Steve smiled as his best friend made grand gestures, walking through the lamp-lit streets to the rattling subway.

"Wouldn't it be just aces if we danced all night at the Savoy?" Bucky swings around to face Steve and Molly. "Whaddaya think on it?"

Steve gives a small chuckle. "Buck."

"Stevie." Bucky raises an eyebrow at his friend.

"Savoy don't generally have orphans and their dates on their list."

"Do either of you fine ladies happen to have last names that might appear on such a prestigious list?"

Shirley laughs again. "Well no, Mr Stark, I was rather hoping your name would be on it."

"I know a place," Molly cuts in. Her voice is clear, but not quite as loud as her friend. "It's no Savoy but it's just caddy-corner from where I work, not more than a few stops on the subway from here. Small pub with a smaller dance floor, but they always got the best music on the jukebox."

"Sounds just fine." Bucky's still beaming.

The train is crowded with folks coming from the World's Fair, and they have to push their way out of the car not ten minutes after getting on with a chorus of "sorry"s and "pardon"s, polite as possible to avoid a tiff.

The pub itself isn't much better, packed with locals finishing long weeks of work and needing a drink and a dance. Bucky leads Shirley to the dance floor after just a few drinks and they're still dancing three quarters of an hour later.

Steve has made polite conversation with Molly, learning she's a secretary at a small accounting office and that she has a head for numbers. He asks her a couple of tough maths problems and when she quickly gives the answers, he laughs because he realises he has no way of checking them.

Fifteen minutes into their chatter, relief slowly starts to wash over them that neither is going to want the other to dance. Even though Molly keeps looking to her friend, dancing to the trumpets on the jukebox, she isn't half as impatient as the other dames Steve is used to, and he appreciates it.

Bucky and Shirley, however, have noticed that two have no plans on dancing, and march themselves over when they're already on half a bender, holding out their hands and insisting they dance. Molly reluctantly grabs Shirley's delicate hand and Steve sighs, following Bucky to dance after the two girls have gone.

The Andrews Sisters swell through the tiny pub and Bucky quickly finds his rhythm, Steve following soon after. He feels the lank of his limbs and how his clothes don't fit quite right, hanging in all the wrong places. But he also sees Bucky, who's looking at him like he's the stars and suddenly Steve knows he's beaming right back.

They've lost the girls in the tight crowd of people, and even though Steve knows Bucky is going to go back to Shirley when he sees her again, it would be rude to do otherwise, he's also glad to have this dance to just him and his best friend. When the music slows- only a bit, it's still upbeat, still quick; Steve takes a minute to catch his breath, inhale and exhale slowly so he won't have to waste his inhaler with a completely preventable asthma attack.

Bucky slows with him, and as Steve looks up from his feet, the taller boy leans down just a bit to give him a quick kiss on the lips. Steve stops breathing, feels his throat catch as he feels Bucky's mouth quirk slightly with a smile. His lips taste a bit like beer and mint and _home_ , like the taste of the air of their Brooklyn apartment. And Steve can't stop himself from kissing back, lets his tongue wander, even if only for a moment. Because that's how long it lasts, no more than a few seconds, yet it feels like an eternity. No one notices.

"Buck-" Steve starts. He knows Bucky goes for the fellas, knows because sometimes Buck's walking home from the wrong direction, from one of _those_ bars. And Steve doesn't ask any questions, doesn't mind either, really, knows that he would go for a chap just the same as a dame if only he weren't 95 pounds soaking wet. But other people _do_ mind, they mind a lot, so they never talk about it. Just another unspoken thought between the Brooklyn boys.

"I like large parties, they're intimate." Bucky cuts him off, gesturing around them. "There's no privacy at small parties."

"Those ain't your words." Steve knows exactly where those words came from because Bucky has read aloud to him from that book more times than he can count.

"Don't make 'em any less true."

A few more tunes and they find the girls again. Buck and Shirley keep dancing but Molly and Steve sit back down until finally, _finally_ the other two are ready to go.

 

3.

It's been two weeks since Pearl Harbor and all that's playing on the radio is Christmas music, broken once an hour for updates on the war. At night, the music goes from Christmas tunes to old hits that had played on the radio for weeks on end. The familiar instruments sound like home. Steve likes to think that there are troops listening to the same music as him and Bucky. Bucky’s real quiet when those songs come on. 

It's late, the room getting colder every hour, but Steve doesn't get up from where he sits on the threadbare sofa, sketching cityscapes and the few pieces of furniture in their apartment. He draws Bucky, who’s sitting at the table, staring at the radio. His eyes are out of focus, hair mussed from running his hands through it in worry.

Steve keeps scratching out every attempt he makes to draw him. It doesn't look right. No matter how much he draws Bucky, he thinks, he will never get it right. Tonight, it's getting the right kind of sad on the wrong kind of man. So he pushes away his sketchbook, dropping it on the floor, and walks slowly over to him. 

"Hey, Buck?" Billie Holiday's steady voice crackles through the speakers. One of Bucky’s favourites. Bucky doesn't smile, though, not at the radio, not at Steve. He won't even look at Steve. "Buck, wanna dance?" He still won't look up. Steve holds out his hand the way Bucky used to for him before the start of December, and after a moment of hesitation, he takes it. 

They don't dance, not really; Steve holds Bucky's hand in his and has the other on his shoulder. Bucky loosely holds Steve's waist, he brings his mouth to Steve's forehead and looks at the blank wall behind him. Back and forth they move, feet stepping on the familiar floorboards, creaking like they always do under their dances. 

Even with Bucky leaning on him, Bucky feels small, even smaller than Steve. His movements are slow, his breathing is shallow, and even though his grasp on Steve is loose, he pulls him close to his chest. For as long as he could remember, when Bucky had held him like this, it was when _Steve_ was sick, or cold, or the night he didn’t end up spending on the couch cushions. Steve can feel Bucky’s heart beating fast and scared under his thin undershirt, sticky with sweat.

For a minute, the only voice is the one coming from the radio, but as the chorus starts again, Steve whispers along, just loud enough for Bucky to hear.

“ _They can_ _’_ _t take that away from me_ ,” Steve can hear his voice rasp, but as he tilts his head up to meet Bucky’s eyes, he smiles softly, and Bucky cracks a smile in return.

“The way you sing off-key,” Bucky teases. His voice is slow and steady, no trace of fear left in his features. His smile grows as Steve laughs, and he stops swaying, standing and still holding Steve. He leans forward slightly, closing the few inches between them, pressing his lips to Steve’s. Steve brings his arms up around Bucky’s shoulders, as Bucky parts his lips slightly. No teeth, no tongue, hardly moving, but Bucky holds Steve close and when he pulls away, just barely, his eyes are already searching Steve’s face.

“I don’t wanna go off to war, Stevie,” his voice is barely a whisper. “I don’t wanna go to war, I’m so damn scared. I got a life to live, a punk to protect-”

“You know I don’t need protectin’, Buck,” Steve tries to reassure him, but Bucky just shakes his head.

“What’ll I do at war, Stevie? We’re saving for a tree, I wanna decorate it all fancy in tinsel with you, I wanna be here. Plans, I’ve got _plans_ , for me, you, Becca- the hell happens if I die?”

“I won’t let you, I’ll follow you an' make sure you won’t.”

“You’re not following me, Stevie. I don’t want neither of us to go to war. Uncle Sam can eat shit, I’m too scared, Stevie. Too damn scared.”

The silence stretches between them, save for the near-quiet of the radio. Steve leads Bucky into a slow, easy two-step; back and forth, back and forth. The songs on the radio get slower, turning sad and sleepy, bleeding into one another until there’s silence. When Bucky’s head starts to nod, it’s near three in the morning, and Steve leads him to their room. Bucky asks him to stay in his bed that night, and curls around him through to the morning, arm still slung around his waist, and mouth still in his hair.

 

4.

One more ballgame for the two of them.

Bucky had said he wanted to sneak into the Dodgers game, just in case it was his last. Steve wanted to say that he would never let this be Bucky's last, that he would be watching Dodgers games until he was 82 and blue, but it got stuck in his throat because _Bucky will come home_. As much as Steve Rogers was ready to give his life for his country, he never wanted his best friend to do the same. To him, James Buchanan Barnes was an invincible hero, and if he went off to war, he would be coming back with stories from all across Europe. Stories, Steve hoped, that would include him.

So Steve didn't want to say no and loved the idea of a Dodgers game himself, loved even more the thought of how _happy_ it would make his best friend. He didn't fight it when Bucky snuck them in instead of paying, and when Bucky commented on it, Steve just shrugged.

A world at war and _still_ the stands were filled with fans, cheering for their home team, eating popcorn because it was a good snack during rations; wearing fewer clothes because the soldiers needed their fabric; unburned by any metal on their skin in the hot sun because it had all been melted down for bullets and weaponry.

Their happiness and cheers were all temporary facades. They would go home and hear the fireside chats and remember where their boys were. Bucky would go home and remember where he was going, because he was fit to serve and his country needed another warm body. He thought that if he was ten years younger he would be excited, he would be too naive to know that war isn't romantic or heroic; it's just bloody.

A Brooklyn Dodgers game was the perfect place to forget all this, so Bucky nicked them some peanuts and Cracker Jacks, and laughed at the misshapen prize Steve pulled from the bag.

"I think it's a car?" Steve wonders aloud.

"You could play Monopoly with it," Bucky responds, tossing a bit of Cracker Jack in the air and catching it between his teeth

"We don't _own_ Monopoly, Buck."

"Maybe not now, sure, but someday we'll own any board game you want. _Anything_ you want."

Their conversation is interrupted by a home run, neither of them knows for what team, but they cheer anyway, because the swell of the crowd and the sweetness of playing field grass is practically contagious. Every hit, every swing, every out, every walk, they react with the rest of the crowd, because truth be told, neither of them are paying much mind to the game itself. All that matters was the fact that they're _here_ for however long that is.

When the game ends, they take their time leaving the stadium, letting it last as long as possible, savouring their last looks at the view they both know they might never see again. Vera Lynn blares over the speakers and some people sang along as they stream out of the gates to the parking lot.

Bucky starts singing along, nudging Steve to join him, and the two are soon singing out of tune and off-key, but so is everyone else, and who cares anyway, Stevie?

Neither of them cares because it's 1943 and the world is at war and neither of them know if the Dodgers won or lost. They don't care because it smells like summer and they don't care because they've made it this far. They don't care because it's just the two of them, like it always has been, and they don't care because it's 1943 and right now, war means nothing.

Bucky has Steve at the waist and threads their fingers together and laughs as he leads them out of the stadium, spinning them with the slow rhythm of the song. They bump into a couple of folks and some laugh and some try to argue, but they're laughing and dancing and singing and trying to hard not to remember what's outside the stadium.

It's something unspoken, and it's usually so careful, so cautious. The world around them can't see because they're already getting into enough fist fights to last them three lifetimes each. Now though, there's a part of them that knows they might die soon anyway, that the world won't remember them and whatever they do now won't matter, _so why not?_

It's stupid and it's reckless, but it's dancing with Bucky Barnes and it's all the things Steve loves.

 

5.

All over America, people old and young know stories of the Howling Commandos and their triumphs. Some are true, most are tales spun by wide-eyed children imagining the romantic possibilities of fighting a war. Nothing about it is romantic, though, and the stories they fabricate don't come close to the heart-pumping truths.

Fighting Nazis was what Steve had dreamed of doing, and now that he's out of his tights and into the battlefield with friends, especially Bucky, by his side, he feels like he's _finally_ making a difference. But brave Steve Rogers also isn't going to admit that the front lines scare him six ways to Sunday, that the only thing that kept him going was his "stupid fucking _stubbornness_ " and "when ya gonna _learn_ , Rogers?" Familiar words from the mouth of one James Buchanan Barnes as he grunts in frustration at the impossible number of his friend's wounds.

"Woulda thunk your new body'da kept ya safe."

Steve just smiles. He smiles because Bucky Barnes keeps him going.

The knowledge that Bucky has his back, that his marksman's shot kept him safe, that after all these years, he's still keeping that punk from Brooklyn safe, calmed Steve's nerves, made them easier to tame. The memory of his best friend strapped to that table, struggling to remember his own identity, muttering a string of numbers over and over, again and again, fills Steve with a rage that could keep him going through Hydra camp after Hydra camp.

It also means that when Bucky Barnes asks him to dance to a Billie Holliday tune, he no longer puts up a fight. He beams and takes his hand, lets himself be led to the middle of some unknown bar in an unknown town in Europe.

Even if it isn't Miss Holliday's voice crooning and crackling over the speakers, even if the song is in a language neither of the Brooklyn boys knows, even if the tempo is one they've never danced to before, Steve takes his hand. Because he has Bucky back and he can't bear the thought of turning down another moment with his best friend.

So it's 1944 and none of the Howling Commandos is completely sure where they are, but they do know that the beer is good, the food is good, and the music is worthy of a swing. The last base they raided had left them bruised and bloody, and they were certain there were at least ten broken bones among them. All they wanted now was a distraction from the war around them that seemed to engulf every corner that the world didn't have.

Steve gazes in frustration at the hard liquor in his glass, resented how it didn't send so much as a buzz through his body. Not a year ago he would have been drunk with a glass of light beer, and now there was nothing. Nothing when he needed it the most as flashes of the last raid and raids before wouldn't- _couldn't_ , stop playing in his head.

"Heya, Stevie," Bucky grins, standing behind him, one hand placed on his friend's shoulder. "May I have this dance?" There's a chuckle his voice and the others recognise his joking tone, but there's also a quiet sincerity only known between the two best friends.

Steve turns his barstool to face his friend, whose cheeks are tipped red with the buzz of alcohol. He stretches out his hand, palm up, and watches Bucky clap his hand in Steve's. The Commandos laugh good-naturedly as the pair make their way towards the dance floor, making Bucky grin even wider, laughing along with his friends.

The Mills Brothers bring the bar's mood to the aces, filling it with joyous trumpets and a piano's rhythm to tire out even the best of them. Duke Ellington sings with their laughs as Steve struggles to keep up with Bucky, tripping over himself and stepping on his best friend's toes. His body still feels too big, still isn't sure how to control its finer movements.

Back and forth, two-step, two more, and Bucky is spinning him to the howling laughter of everyone else in the bar as Steve loses his balance and nearly falls on top of a girl who squeaks and then blushes at the sight of Captain America apologising profusely to her.

"Gee, Rogers," Buck teases. "You were a better dancer when you still had two left feet."

"Shuddup."

"Make me." The smirk on his friend's face grows into a mischievous grin that says _I dare you, punk_ , but if there's one thing that terrifies Steve Rogers, it's just that. Instead, he grabs a half-eaten apple right from Gabe's hands and shoves it into Bucky's surprised mouth. Peals of laughter ring out from everyone watching the ridiculous sight of the two of them dancing and laughing and clinging to each other because outside of the bar door there is a world of lead bullets and screams of pain that none of them wants to remember is real.

They keep dancing, each of them switching off for a dame or a Commando every couple of numbers, still grinning, still tripping, and always sending each other quick smiles.

After a couple of hours, the night wears down. People trickle out of the bar and others fall asleep, much to the annoyance of the bartenders. Steve and Bucky, however, keep dancing, slow or fast, like the music barely matters, just the movement between them. The two of them fall into a rhythm, keeping both of them on their feet with their toes safe.

The rest of the world doesn't exist. Just them and the music and the sound of snoring drunkards.

"Love you, punk." Bucky's voice is low, meant for only the two of them, even when no one else is listening.

"Love you back."

 

+1.

The song playing is one Steve doesn't recognise, and figures Bucky's gotten further in Sam's playlists than he has. Which makes sense since he's always out "Avengering" as Sam calls it and the public doesn't even _know_ about Bucky yet. He likes the song, it's upbeat and filled with confidence, reminds him of his best friend, the way he always was back in Brooklyn.

He's made his steps loud, so Bucky isn't surprised when Steve comes up behind him and rests his chin on his shoulder and gives him a small hug, snaking his arms around Bucky's waist.

"Hello," Steve greets him.

"Still so weird that you can do that," Bucky voices in reply, turning his head to give Steve a kiss on the cheek, not quite able to reach his lips.

"What's this?"

"It's food, you doof. It's the 21st century now, there's plenty of it, remember?"

"No, I mean the _music_."

Bucky twists out of Steve's embrace to go check the phone lying on the other counter.

"Band is called Queen," he replies. "Think I mighta heard 'em when I was... y'know."

"Yeah," Steve's voice gets soft. "I know." He switches the topic back quickly, hating the unnecessary weight in the air. He knows Bucky needs to talk this sort of thing out, but not when it catches both of them so off-guard. "Ladies must've loved him."

"The singer?" Bucky laughs. "Sure, but they weren't his speed." He pauses and quirks an eyebrow. "He had a sweetheart named Jim."

"Really?" Steve's eyes go wide.

"Don't look so surprised, Stevie. Look at us, Captain America and his assassin boyfriend."

"It's just, we _know_ about- I mean, he wasn't put in _jail_ or nothin'-"

"I know." They both know that for decades the world ignored certain facts about Oscar Wilde, that everyone tried to look the other way with Billie Holliday, couldn't let go of her music. They both know that the chaste kisses they'd shared in a rush of adrenaline after fights side-by-side with the Howlies had been erased from the history books. Mostly, they remember the police raids in their side of town, the parts where only the poor and the outcasts lived. They remember the queer-beaters who angered Steve stiff, the beatings they gave to some of their neighbours, and the quiet funerals that followed afterwards.

 "C'mon, Cap," Bucky motions, coaxing Steve into the living room. "Let's dance."

They get lost in words of lover boys and fine dining as they drink in the music that engulfs them. Step by step and swing by swing they find the beat to tap their feet to. It's different than what they know, but it's got that same joy, the same full hope found in love even when you know you're missing the next two meals.

The pair laughs as they try to fit seventy-year-old dances with thirty-year-old music, feet stepping in the wrong style to the wrong rhythm, tripping without trumpets and the crackle of 45s. But they have each other in the safety of Stark Tower, and it's just the two of them again, just like Brooklyn in the 30s, when money was tight but music was in surplus. It's all the quick of their feet and the swing of their arms with their eyes locked on each other full of smiles and without a thought to where they've come from.

 _This_ , Steve thinks, _is enough._

**Author's Note:**

> tysm for reading!! i spent a while on this fic (about two and a half months i think) but it could always be improved, so leave a comment telling me what you thought (✿◠‿◠)
> 
> i wanna thank [ladyaudiophile](http://www.ladyaudiophile.tumblr.com) for beta'ing me on this fic, and [rileybleus](http://www.rileybleus.tumblr.com) for providing loads of motivation. i love you guys so much, thank you for being there for me when these vintage bisexuals make me sad.


End file.
